Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane <br />shivers and moans upon its dripping pin, <br />ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain <br />howls at the flues and windows to get in, <br />the golden rooster claps his golden wings <br />and from the Baptist Chapel shrieks no more, <br />the golden arrow in the southeast sings <br />and hears on the roof the Atlantic Ocean roar. <br />Waves among wires, sea scudding over poles, <br />down every alley the magnificence of rain, <br />dead gutters live once more, the deep manholes <br />hollow in triumph a passage to the main. <br />Umbrellas, and in the Gardens one old man <br />hurries away along a dancing path, <br />listens to music on a watering-can, <br />observes among the tulips the sudden wrath, <br />pale willows thrashing to the needled lake, <br />and dinghies filled with water; while the sky <br />smashes the lilacs, swoops to shake and break, <br />till shattered branches shriek and railings cry. <br />Speak, Hatteras, your language of the sea: <br />scour with kelp and spindrift the stale street: <br />that man in terror may learn once more to be <br />child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.<br /><br />Conrad Potter Aiken<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hatteras-calling/
